Turning Saints into the Sea
by winter machine
Summary: "By rights, though, he should be the one pleasing her. Mark. Not Derek who doesn't know what he's doing, who fumbles awkwardly like a teenager."  Mark, Addison, and Derek in an alternate universe of jealousy.  Based on the prompt "voyeur."  Mature themes.


_Prompt_: _Mark/Addison/Derek, voyeur. This story contains mature themes and language. If you make it through, please let me know what you think. Title and internal lyrics from The Killers' "Mr. Brightside." If it's convenient, I suggest that song as a background to the story. _

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><p><strong>Turning Saints into the Sea<strong>

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><p><strong><em>it started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this<em>**

It starts the same way it always does: he tells him things, just casually. The only difference is her. She's better than that, needs more than his old friend can give her. It's remarkable, really, how much he doesn't know. Somehow he's the first one to inform Derek that a few well placed slaps turns the good old missionary position into something else entirely. Not exactly rocket science, but this is Derek he's talking to. He needs to start small. They swap tips - swap, as if Derek could teach him anything, he laughs at the thought - over beer, as friends do.

_(-Do you have friends, Mark?_

_-Do you have a hearing problem, Dr. Wallace?)_

First it's enough just to hear about it - sharing details of their dates. Dates, how cute. How coy. He doesn't care about the Italian restaurant on the east side or the late night walk in the park. What happened when you got home, he asks. He listens closely, parsing the sentences and extracting information like they're studying for exams. What did he mean, she didn't like that move? Pushed him away how? Be specific, Derek. You're going to be a doctor, Derek. Generalities won't do. When he said she moaned, what kind of a moan were they talking about here? Satisfaction? Pleasure? Pain? I don't know, Derek mumbles. It is your _job_ to know, Mark informs him coolly.

**_now I'm falling asleep as she's calling a cab_**

Then it's not enough anymore, and he needs to hear it himself. It's easy enough with their dorm rooms next door to each other. There's a little hole in the cheap plasterboard wall already. Big enough to absorb the sound, release it into his room. Especially if he props a glass against the wall. Then he can hear for himself: her breathy moans - each one unique to him. His soft grunts. The rasp of his hand against the fabric of her shirt. The squeak and release of her bra clasp. He lets his head rest against the wall as Derek asks her to stay and she demurs, makes noises about a taxi, a roommate. _Good girl._ He hears the soft footfalls as she prepares to leave, a whoosh of air and the slap of flesh against something hard. Derek must be pressing her up against the wall to say goodbye. Nice. _He_ wouldn't have let her leave, of course. He would have given her the option - they always have the option - but when his fingers skimmed over her she would have relented and by the time he finished with her she wouldn't have remembered her own address.

_(-Who is this girlfriend you keep talking about, Mark? Does she really exist?_

_-Compound question, Dr. W. Beneath you, really: I expect better at these prices.)_

Of course she exists. He gets to look at her in class every day, at the length of her legs and the soft exposed nape of her neck. She wears a ponytail in lab, long and red and swinging. Her seat is right beside him and it would be so easy to give that swath of hair a little tug. Playful. But he doesn't want to give it a little anything. He wants to grab it, wind the thick copper cords around his fist and drag her head back while he drives into her. He wants to rip the stupid rubber band out and bury his fingers deep in those fragrant locks - they're still damp sometimes in the morning, fresh from her shower, and the smell of her shampoo drives him mad. He thinks of how she'll look with her hair loose and wild on her shoulders, groaning as he tugs at the sensitive bits around her temples while she stretches her mouth to accommodate him.

**_I just can't look, it's killing me_**

Soon it's not enough just to listen. A philips-head screwdriver and a small circle of glass pried out of his microscope are all he needs to turn the pinprick hole into something a little wider. Neat. Discreet. No one has to know. Then he gets to press himself closer to the wall and watch his own handiwork. From this angle he can see her face, the arched brow of surprise, her pink lips a perfect circle, as his first thrust scrapes sensitized flesh along the sheets. The missionary trick - took him long enough. Mark would've done it better himself, of course, but it's not bad. A squeak of shock escapes her as her calves hug his narrow hips. They flip over briefly, giving him a perfect view of the red handprints on her flesh. He inches closer, tests the width of his palm against the size of the marks. Pretends he made them himself.

_(-She came so hard last night I thought she would pass out._

_-What's your girlfriend's name, Mark?_

_-Why, Dr. Wallace? You want to call her? Sorry, I don't think she plays for your team.)_

But she could. That's what he tells Derek. _Tell her you want to see her kiss a girl. She'll do it._ Derek asks how he can be sure. Because he's Mark, goddamn it, and because he's seen the way she looks at him with those wide eyes, neither blue nor green. And of course she does it, because she wants to please him. She does a lot to please him. It happens at a party so he can't see it from his watchspot. That won't do, he needs to know what it was like to see those two soft pink tongues tangling, stiffened nipples brushing against each other, so he tells Derek to make her recount it the next night. Slowly. Good foreplay, he says, and Derek flushes at the word _foreplay._ Fucking pansy. She does what he asks, though, describes the kiss in painstaking detail as he encourages her along. Mark encourages her too, silently, from his post, his hand flying faster and faster. Her voice quivers a little and he feels an answering throb. If life were fair he'd be on the other side of the wall, burying himself deep in wet satin. Not sitting here pressed up to a fucking hole in the wall like he doesn't belong. He licks his own lips at the wet slurping sound of their juvenile kisses. He's the director and he writes the script and this is his film. They'll do what he says. They always do.

**_and taking control_**

By rights, though, he should be the one pleasing her. Mark. Not Derek who doesn't know what he's doing, who fumbles awkwardly like a teenager, rolls over on her hair - making her cry out - gets overly excited and then everything's finished too fast. He has no finesse. Sometimes after they're finished and he's sunk his face into her neck, panting like an overheated dog, Mark just looks at her and fancies she can see him. Her eyes will be open still, that indefinable blue-green, tired or bored or wishing things would last longer. And he'll stroke his own hand over heated flesh, laugh inwardly at how much better at this he is than his old friend.

_(-I want to talk about you today, Mark. _You_, not this girl._

_-Let's talk about me, then. My feelings, that's what you want to know, right? I feel lots of things, Doc. I feel the way she clamps down on me like a vise, like all the breath in the world is gone. I figure I might actually be clinically dead for a second. That's what the French call it, the little death, but I bet you knew that already.)_

If he could have her, he wouldn't leave her wanting. He wouldn't leave her _conscious_, not after pushing her past wave after wave of pleasure like he knows how to coax from the shyest of girls. She sleeps naked that night, thighs slightly parted and he imagines it's an invitation. He falls asleep thinking about the silky fragile skin right where leg rises into something else entirely, and how it would feel between his teeth while his fingers plunged into shuddering velvet walls. He wakes up with a crick in his neck from the fucking straight-backed chair.

**_while he's having a smoke and she's taking a drag_**

She's sitting up on his bed, naked, the long white column of her back announcing itself through the pinprick of light. He wants to broach the wall: wants to lick his way down her spine, to bite the soft indentations at its base, suck the pliant flesh beneath it into his mouth. He watches until it's true - until it's his teeth scraping over her thighs and his lips parting hers. His fingers deep inside her. He listens to the wet suction sound of it, takes a puff of his cigarette and blows smoke as close to the hole as he dares. Is that a blink? Does she see it? Does she see him?

_(-I think you believe you can hide behind these layers of innuendo. What are you afraid of, Mark?_

_-I'm not afraid of anything. Well, maybe the fire. Like on that Scandinavian cruiser, last week? All those people killed. _

_-Why does that frighten you?_

_-You tell me, Doc. Maybe I just have a thing for ferryboats.)_

He focuses all he has on the smooth upward curve at the top of her breasts, the way they tip into the flat plane of her chest, the delicate collarbones above. Suck harder, he told Derek. Girls like that. The next day there are small red marks at the hollow of her throat. She tugs at her collar self consciously in class, trying to cover them, but she can't. Mark has to spread a textbook over his lap after seeing her marked like that. Is he imagining it, or does Derek stand a little taller that day too? He's a giver, Mark. He gives them both pleasure. He should get a fucking medal, or at least a shot at her. Even just once. If Derek wants to watch he won't say no. What's a little voyeurism between friends, anyway?

**_jealousy, turning saints into the sea_**

He's green with envy that Derek is allowed the simple pleasure of tasting her, where he is denied it. Derek is an innocent - an idiot, he thinks on his less charitable days. She seems to like it okay, he shrugs and Mark has to clench his teeth to keep from roaring: she's faking! For god's sake, doesn't he notice anything? Mark can tell, from his spot behind the wall. He can see her hips flex and her fingers dig into the dark curly head and hear her breathy moans. But only an idiot would think it was real. He sees everything that doesn't happen just as clearly: he sees the blush that doesn't creep over her breasts, the way her thighs don't quiver, the way her calf muscles don't clench. He knows when it's real and it's anything but. So he drags Derek aside at the farmer's market, snatches a ripe peach from one of the baskets. He tears the soft skin off quickly with sharp teeth, then takes his time with the juicy flesh inside. People are staring by the time he finishes, spits the scarlet wrinkled pit onto the pavement and licks the last sticky drops from his chin. Derek is red with shame or something else and for a second Mark pities him. But only for a second, because he still has was Mark wants.

_(-You ever had someone do that for you, Doc? Someone who really knows what they're doing, I mean. So you're screaming and you're falling and you're not sure what's real anymore until it all explodes around you?_

_-I'm not going to answer your inappropriate questions, Mark. You know that. Yet you still ask them. Why?_

_-So the answer's no, then. Pity.)_

He puts Mark's technique into play and right away the difference is obvious. Of course it is, anything's better than the overeager puppyish lapping he was married to before. Mark bought a couple of peaches that morning and now he sucks them slowly between his teeth as he watches, one hand balancing the ripe fruit and the other wrapped firmly around his own heated flesh. He sees Derek's movements, typically tentative and annoyingly anxious. But better this time. Definitely better. He's learning, even just a little, his mouth mimicking Mark's to the best of his limited abilities. Mostly, he just watches her: the steady flush that rises over her face, creeping lower until it seems her whole body is alive with red pinpricks of desire. She makes little animal noises, high-pitched whinnies that go straight to his groin. His mouth works the juicy fruit in time with her moans, his jaw flexing when she screams. They come at the same time. He licks his fingers clean while she spasms. He tastes like peaches. He imagines she would taste even sweeter.

**_choking on your alibis_**

Neckties, he proposes. They're not just for church anymore. Derek's confused - big shock there. So he spells it out for him. Wrap them around her wrists, he says. Loop them over her ankles. Drape them across her eyes, trail them between her thighs until she's begging for more. Tease her, make her wait, let her wonder. If he were there he'd press one of them to her throat, let the miracle of re-oxygenated muscles push to her heights she's never felt. But he's not stupid and there's no way Derek would be able to pull that off. He doesn't want her hurt - that's the last thing he wants. He wants a lot: to have her. To take her from him. To roll her beneath his body, taste the skin at her neck and the flesh at her thighs. He wants to make her scream, wants to lick away the sweat that collects between her collarbones as he brings her to the brink over and over and over. But he doesn't want to hurt her.

_(-By not taking these sessions seriously, you're only hurting yourself._

_-Me? I'm not hurting. I feel great. A little tired maybe, but that's what going all night will do to you. Oh, sorry, you wouldn't know about that, would you? You should look into it, Doc. Might loosen you up a bit.)_

I can't, Derek protests, it's too weird. But Mark knows he's weakening. Just try it, he says. She'll love it. And of course he's right. He's Mark. She wears the restraints like a goddess. When he presses his face to the hole in the wall he's unbearably hard before anything's really happened, Derek dabbling nervously between her spread-eagled limbs like the overgrown schoolboy he is. An amateur. But she responds to it like a pro, those magnificent thighs trembling, a quiver at the base of her stomach as the first orgasm rips through her. He thinks he would like to press the flat of his tongue against that spot as she comes, feel the vibrations. He reminds himself to suggest this to Derek tomorrow.

**_gotta gotta be down, because I want it all_**

He wants everything and nothing short of everything will do. He wants to lick a trail from neck to ankle, make her sweat. Wants to see the sounds she makes from his fingers, his tongue, not the spindly hands and insipid pout of his oldest friend. He doesn't understand Derek's appeal to women. Never has. He's skinny all over - yes, even there, though it's certainly not the worst he's seen. And he has seen: it would be a crime to limit his considerable skills to the fairer sex so yeah, he's dabbled, but it would never be someone like Derek. A few locker rooms in the past, sure, a carrel in the library last month, but only if they're worth it. He likes golden skin, chiseled muscles. He can't look seriously at Derek, with his delicate girlish wrists and sharp beak of a nose and that unappealing combination of thinness and pudge. Come to the gym with me, he suggested, more than once, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice. But Derek never wanted to. And yet it's his soft unformed body that's moving over her right now, not Mark's defined sinew.

_(-She's so flexible. Aerobics or something, step class, I don't know; she's a real 90s girl. Bendy, know what I'm saying?_

_-I know what you're saying, Mark. Do you know what you're saying?)_

Derek's head is swelling as a result of his tutelage: he fancies himself a lover now, doesn't give Mark the credit he deserves. Typical. I think we were a little loud last night, he murmurs, all false embarrassment and pride, and Mark has to clench his fist to keep from laughing. The sheer gall. Her screams were his doing, not Derek's. He's the one who suggested the position, even drew it out for him on a fucking bar napkin. Remedial sex. For dummies. She loved it just like he knew she would, and with her face pressed flat to the comforter and both arms behind her, Derek tugging insistently on her wrists, she'd screamed herself hoarse. Usually he can barely stomach looking at his best friend in the throes but he did it anyway, last night, saw the way his face contorted when she clamped down on him. The violent spasms shook them both. Shit, Derek should be kissing the fucking ground he walks on. But he has to maintain this friendship, and he's grateful for it because it allows him to live next door, to look through a screw-widened pinprick into a glorious other world. It's a small price to pay for that.

**_but she's touching his chest now, he takes off her dress now_**

Like this, he tells Derek, and right there in the bar he curves his fingers, flexes his palm, teaches his old friend a new trick. No one cares. They could be talking about anything: Surgery. Guitar. Carpal tunnel, for fuck's sake. But they're not: they're talking about that elusive sponge of concentrated nerves that he knows will make her scream. He'd love to find it himself: slide slow and slippery until he hears that telltale change in breathing, that wet gasp of shocked pleasure. It's sharp - it's close to pain - he knows how to strum that elusive border like a harp. But he can't so this is the best he can do: direct his friend. Advise him that she'll squirm and thrash with the intensity of it, suggest that he splay her legs, pin her like a butterfly until she has no choice but to accept the overwhelming sensations. Derek needs him, needs his direction. And she needs the force of his skill. They won't survive without him. Can't exist without him. I don't know, Derek stammers, and he hastens to reassure his old friend. I've done it, man, he says. Totally worth it. She'll thank you. She'll be gagging for it.

_(-Do you think it's useful to lie to me in these sessions, Mark?_

_-Who says I'm lying? See, I can answer a question with a question too.)_

He brings a blonde home that night. She's in his Introduction to Medical Ethics class, and there's something delicious about that. She's all right, limber and deeply curved with the kind of puffed lips he normally can't resist. Tonight they seem like too much though, and he knots his hands in her hair, lets the locks cover her face until he can see her roots. Of course it's fake. He should have known. He sits in the straight-backed chair, pressed against the wall, but she's an overeager puppy and he can't get a moment to listen. When she pauses he gives her head a distracted pat. Keep going, baby, you're doing fine, he mutters mechanically. He doesn't sound too enthusiastic. It doesn't do to be too enthusiastic, they all want it more when they think they have to please. Come on, he doesn't give them these issues. It's not _his_ fault. She's anxious, forearms pressed into his thighs, slippery fingers grasping for purchase. Is this right? she squeaks. He's a teacher at heart, he supposes, because he takes her head gently between his palms, offers to show her what he wants. Then he's encouraging her to close her eyes, soothing susurration until the tension leaves her neck, and he's stroking her throat with a light finger until she relaxes around him. He shows her how to breathe, she lets out a soft sigh and he's engulfed in warmth. He keeps her calm with expert fingers and, when he can tell she's too engaged to notice, presses his face close to the pinprick hole. On the other side of the wall, Derek's got her spread across the bed. On the other side of the wall, his night is just beginning.

**_it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss_**

There's mistletoe hanging from the arc of his desk lamp. Derek tugs it loose, skims it over her exposed stomach and she laughs and writhes beneath him. Mark rolls his eyes as they wrestle like little kids playing doctor. If he could he'd go over there, snatch the plant from Derek's hand. He'd like to push it inside her, bend his head and nibble the poisonous berries free. Sure it might kill him, but what a way to go. Christmas makes him itchy, frustrated. He drinks apple cider laced liberally with rum while he watches, thinks about sticky tree needles and pushing her down in the snow. A little sharing. A Christmas present. He's fucked all three of Derek's older sisters. They're as skinny and uninspiring as he is, but there was a certain excitement to making them moan in the family homestead while their mother dressed a turkey downstairs, muffling their screams with Christmas carols and the chatter of bare-branched trees against the windows. Nancy tasted like gingerbread. Kathleen was tart, like cranberries. As for the oldest, he can barely remember her name. But he likes symmetry and figures when the little sister's legal he'll cross the complete set off his list. She's the only interesting one of the bunch, feisty and quick, and he thinks he'll enjoy her the most, one day. It's always _one day_ for him.

_(-So what's the verdict? The diagnosis, whatever. I'm going to be a doctor, you know. A real doctor, not an overpriced Park Avenue shrink. No offense._

_-You're self-loathing, Mark. Self-loathing and self-destructive to an almost pathological degree. There's your diagnosis._

_-Well hey, thanks, Dr. Wallace! Here I didn't know you cared so much. Look, if you want me throw you a pity fuck, all you have to do is ask. You're not so bad for an old broad.)_

He never gets what he wants. And if he does, it vanishes, somehow. It's not his fault. They're not taking this from him, though. When janitorial services knocks on his door to repaint he tells them to get lost. The crisp hundred, plucked from a butter-soft wallet of its clones, is enough to keep them away. The wall is his, the pinprick of light that beckons him each night. The straight backed chair, innocently studious during the day but slick with sweat by sunrise. The mini fridge stocked with cold beer, half-broken drawer of icy vodka. Someday you've got to spruce up this bachelor pad, Derek joked - his room, of course, has a few sprays of flowers, a throw pillow, the silly girlish things that are the price for a warm feminine body in your bed every night. It's every night because of him, of course. Because he's generous, benevolent with his expertise. What are friends for? he shrugs when Derek thanks him, tells him last night went really well. Like he had to tell him. Like Mark hadn't seen it for himself, so close he could swear the lines between himself and the other man finally blurred. When he pressed his own fingers to his lips he swore he could taste her. Finals are next week; long nights in the library are the perfect time to talk. He makes a mental note to ask Derek to describe her scent so he can test his hypothesis. The scientific method: his professors would be pleased that he's finally living up to his potential.

**_now they're going to bed and my stomach is sick _**

It's over, again, the crescendo of gasps through the wall turned into nothing more than exhausted sighs. It's always over too soon. He's better, he's so much better, but he's not Mark. He'll never be Mark. She wriggles into one of his shirts; Mark watches appreciatively as she arches her back, her spine lengthening as she stretches the material over her head. It's almost perfect, but then Derek's hands are on her again, sliding under the hem to fit over her hip, teasing lightly at the slight curve of her belly.

_(-This girlfriend of yours, she doesn't have a problem with the things you say? The way you speak?_

_-To tell you the truth, Dr. W., we don't really 'speak' very much at all. Our mouths are usually busy with other things. You get me?)_

He's a bit nauseated, the room slightly too hot. He presses a beer bottle to the back of his neck, the cool glass soothing against his flushed skin. They're sprawled together on the rumpled blue sheet, He looks closely, until he can see the scattering of gooseflesh at the top of her thighs, the shadow above it where bone pokes through near-transclucent skin. She shifts in her sleep, a sound escaping her, and he lets his fingers trail along the wall. Runs them slowly down the dented plaster, pretends it's the white shelf of her hip, the firm jut of muscle below the satin skin of her thighs. He spreads his hand slightly, opening her wide. She beckons him and he falls in.

**_and it's all in my head but_**

He nods at the tall, ponytailed figure perched on the lab stool across the table. Her teeth are just slightly grazing her bottom lip. She's concentrating.

"Hey, Derek." He pokes his oldest friend, again, when he doesn't answer. "Derek."

"What?" His whisper is a hiss. "I'm trying to listen here."

Mark rolls his eyes. He jerks his chin toward the redhead. "I think you should ask her out."

"Who, Addison?"

"Yeah. She likes you."

"No way. What, you really think so?"

"I know so. Do it." He whispers it close to Derek's ear, lets his lips linger just a moment longer than necessary. "You need to."

Derek pulls back. "Hey, you know what you need, Mark? A shrink."

"You know I don't believe in that shit."

"Well, you should go anyway."

Mark shrugs. "Maybe someday I will. You never know."

**_letting me go_**


End file.
